Everything
by Hay Bails
Summary: When John and Mary Watson are killed in an auto crash, Sherlock finds himself taking care of their year-old son, Hamish. However, even genius detectives sometimes need help with parenting, and Greg Lestrade takes it upon himself to rescue the grieving man.
1. Chapter 1

He looked so lost.

I watched him from down the hallway, holding John and Mary's year-old son like he was the most fragile thing in the universe. Hamish, for his part, was playing with the fingers of Sherlock's free hand, as if nothing was wrong at all.

Sherlock wouldn't cry, I knew. At least, not in public.

I also knew that his silence did not mean that he wasn't devastated.

"Sherlock?" I asked tentatively. He made no response. "Sherlock," I said again, a little more firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He whipped around to face me. Hamish was startled by the sudden motion, and began to cry softly.

"Sorry," I said, to both of them.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, sounding dull and uninterested. He wiggled his fingers in front of Hamish's face. Hamish grasped his pinkie, and the crying ceased. The child held the digit, enraptured.

"I… Sherlock," I started, clearing my throat. Christ, this was difficult. "If you need anything… anything at all…"

He stared at me for a moment. "I need John," he said simply.

I winced. "I'm so sorry," I said quietly. It wasn't enough.

Sherlock searched my eyes for a moment, then looked back down at the little boy in his arms.

"I can't raise a child," he said without much conviction.

_Of course not. Why were you named Hamish's godfather to begin with?_

"You can," I said aloud. "You have to."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "I can't give him up," he admitted. "He's…" the detective trailed off. His eyes glistened.

I watched him helplessly. This was absurd. Sherlock Holmes never cried. Nothing could faze him.

Except, evidently, identifying the mangled bodies of John and Mary Watson.

Christ, this was a mess. I ran a hand through my hair.

"Tell you what. Why don't you and Hamish come stay at my place tonight?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to meet mine. Hamish gurgled and batted at Sherlock's thumb. The man continued to look lost. I felt awful. I hadn't seen that expression on his face in nearly fifteen years.

"Why?" He searched me for a reaction.

_Because I don't trust you not to do something incredibly stupid._

"Because it's nearly one in the morning, and my place is closer. Besides, it's not like the other bedroom is being put to use."

Sherlock stared at me for nearly a minute. I began to fear that he would turn me down, or not say anything at all.

Then he said, "All right." His voice was soft as silk.

I nodded brusquely, and put a hand on his back between his shoulder blades. "Do you need time to say goodbye?"

He looked torn. "I'm not… I don't…"

I made the decision for him, taking Hamish carefully from his arms. I nestled the child between the crook of my elbow and my chest.

"Go. Say what you need to. We'll wait out here for you."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it again. He glanced at Hamish, then at me, then turned and walked back through the doors into the morgue.

I looked down at the little boy in my arms. He had John's look to him, eyes, nose and mouth. His hair was lighter, though. He yawned, and nestled into my chest with a frown.

"Da?" he asked. "Da?"  
My heart broke in two.

"Oh, Hamish," I muttered softly. "Sherlock will be back soon."

"Da," he said, with another big yawn.

"I know you're tired, kid. I wish I could bring back John and Mary for you."

He whimpered, and began to cry, very quietly. Hamish was one of the quietest babies I had ever seen. He rarely cried at anything. However, it had been a long day – for both him and Sherlock, though baby Hamish was certainly the more tired of the two.

I rubbed a hand absently along Hamish's back. "It's okay, 'Mish. It will all be okay." God, I wished that were true. I leaned back against the wall beside the door, fully prepared to wait the night through if that was how long it took for Sherlock to say goodbye to John.

It wasn't.

I was a bit surprised when Sherlock walked out of the room not ten minutes later with dry eyes.

"You say everything you need to?" I asked.

He gave a curt nod, and took Hamish back into his arms. Hamish immediately calmed down, and snuggled into Sherlock's chest. I gave a half-smile.

"You've really got a way with him," I said, honestly surprised that the child seemed so comfortable in his arms.

Sherlock shrugged. "I researched how babies respond to different types of touch," he said absently. Hamish was struggling to keep his eyes open.

I watched them for a moment before shaking my head. "You ready to go? Squad car's out front."

Sherlock nodded, and I placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him toward the exit. It was a testament to how badly off he was that he did not object to the touch. He kept his eyes fixed in front of him the whole way to the car.

"There's no child seat," he said suddenly, breaking the silence as I unlocked the car.

I cursed inwardly.  
"Well," I said, thinking as I rubbed the back of my neck. "He should be fine for the ride home, as long as you hold him in your lap."

Sherlock stared at me as if I were insane.

"He _needs_ a child seat, Lestrade." My spine tingled at the venom in his voice.

I studied Sherlock for a moment, then cursed myself for being so thick. John and Mary had just died in an auto crash. Of course Sherlock would be sensitive about this. Sherlock had every right to be sensitive about this.

I straightened up. "You're right. I'll go back inside and see if they have one."

Sherlock looked ready to argue, but just nodded, holding Hamish a fraction tighter.

I asked a few nurses, and was eventually directed to the hospital's nursery. They had child seats, they said, but all were designed for newborns ready to be transported home for the first time. Still, a seat slightly too small was better than no seat at all, and they happily provided me with one.

I brought it back out to the squad car, where Sherlock was rocking back and forth on his heels. He immediately froze at the sight of the seat.

"That's too small," he declared.

"It's all they had, Sherlock."

"He won't fit."

I sighed, and placed the plastic seat on top of the car.

"It's this, or all three of us walk the miles back to my place."

Sherlock looked ready to accept the second option, but decided not to argue, upon looking at the now-sleeping child in his arms.

"Fine. I'll hold him," he said quietly, climbing into the car without a fight. "Just drive _carefully._"

I tossed the useless seat into the back of the car, and got in.

The drive only took about six minutes, but it felt more like six hours, with how rigid and pale Sherlock had gone. He looked as though he might be sick. Hamish, thankfully, did not wake. We made it to my house without incident, though Sherlock looked as if it had been the most traumatic drive of his life. Perhaps it had.

He clambered out of the car quickly, accidentally nudging Hamish awake. Hamish whined once, but fell back asleep at a gentle shush from his godfather.

I locked the car, and shepherded the lost detective into my living room.

"Would he be better off in the bed or on the couch?" I asked Sherlock.

He looked doubtfully at the child. "He might… he might roll off…"

I put a hand on the detective's arm. "I have an idea. What if we spread out a few blankets on the floor? That way there's nothing to roll off of."

The younger man looked frightened.

"Do you know how many bacteria live on-"

I sighed, and cut him off. "All right. Okay. Yes, I know. Well…" I scratched my head. "What if we put him on the bed and surrounded him with pillows to stop him from moving about?"

"He might smother himself, Lestrade! He might… he…"

Sherlock bit back something that might have been a sob. I wondered if he even remembered how to cry.

"Easy, Sherlock," I muttered. I touched his collarbone lightly. He closed his eyes, shuddering. I continued. "It seems to me that the floor holds less peril for this youngster, especially if I use clean blankets. What do you say?"

Sherlock breathed through his nose.

"Yes," he whispered.

"All right then. I'll set up a spot for him beside your bed in the guest room."

He nodded. I patted him once, then left to go set up a spot for Hamish.

Poor Sherlock. He didn't have the first clue about how to care for a child. It was almost funny – the genius rendered helpless by a baby. I placed three blankets from the closet on the floor in a generously sized rectangle.

When I turned back toward the door, Sherlock was watching.

"Will this be enough, you think?"

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "I don't…"

I gave a halfhearted smirk. "He'll be fine. I promise."

The younger man looked at me helplessly, but listened, thank god, and knelt, setting the child down onto the blankets more gently than I would have thought possible. Hamish sighed, but did not wake.

"See? He's just fine."

Sherlock looked dazed.

"Yes, he's… fine," he agreed. He sat on his knees, watching the baby boy sleep. I studied him for perhaps a minute.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?"

"I… I don't…"

I frowned. Sherlock was far gone tonight. I tried a different approach.

"Come with me. I'm making you tea."

I took his hand, and lifted him to standing. He followed me to the kitchen meekly. I set him in a wooden chair and put the kettle on to boil. I sat in the chair beside him.

His eyes were cast down. The silence was palpable.

"Sherlock…" I started, before thinking better of it. What was there to say?

"Yes?" He didn't even glance up.

I sighed, gathering my thoughts.

"John loved you," I began.

That got his attention. Sherlock looked up, scrutinizing me.

"You were his best friend, and I know that you trusted him more than anything. That trust went both ways. I hope you know that."

Sherlock looked miserable.

"I can't fail him, Lestrade." I wasn't sure if he meant John or Hamish. Perhaps he was referring to both.

"You won't." I realized that the words were true as they left my mouth. Sherlock would make sure that Hamish was taken care of, despite public opinion about him. He was not a sociopath, regardless of how he labeled himself. I had seen how he looked at John, and how gentle he was with John's son. "And please, Sherlock, just call me Greg. I know you know my name."

He fidgeted in his seat before looking down once more.

The kettle whistled, and I moved to go grab it. I poured out two mugs, and spooned in the tea. "Hope you don't mind loose leaf," I said, setting his mug in front of him.

He picked it up and cradled it in his hands.

"Greg," he said softly.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm so scared."

I looked up at him sharply. Sherlock Holmes, admitting weakness? This was not a good sign.

"You don't have to be scared. I know that Hamish Watson will be the best protected little boy in London."

He drew in a shaky breath, and set the mug back on the table.

"A protector is one thing. A father is another…"

"One step at a time, yeah?"

Sherlock placed his hands in his lap, prim as you please, and let out one shaky sob, then another. "Sorry," he whispered delicately, trying to control himself.

I quickly stood and moved to crouch beside him. I placed my arm around his shoulders.

"No apologies. You get out whatever you need to get out, sunshine." He hesitated, still trying to gulp back his tears. I sighed, and stood once more, pulling him to his feet with me. I pulled his head onto my shoulder. "There's no need to feel ashamed. There's nothing wrong with letting it out."

"_Greg,_" he moaned plaintively, wrapping his arms around my torso.

"That's it, sunshine," I muttered. I placed a hand on his head. His hair was warm.

Sherlock sobbed like a scratched record. I suspected this was the first time he had truly cried in years. I murmured soft words to him, not entirely sure of what I was saying.

It occurred to me that I should be feeling upset too. John had been a good friend to me. We had often gone for drinks of a Friday evening, and he had been easy to talk to. I'd grown quite fond of him over the past four or five years. I couldn't find it in me to shed tears, though. Not yet.

Sherlock was apologizing.

"Shush," I told him. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for." I ran my hand down his neck and along his spine. His muscles were painfully tense.

He choked on a sob and began to cough. I continued to rub his back gently.

"Easy, sunshine," I muttered.

"Greg-" he managed to get out, in between sobs. I looked down at him worriedly. He was paler than normal, with a tinge of green in his cheeks.

Small wonder that he was nauseous. John and Mary had been a gruesome sight after the auto wreck, even to experienced eyes. It was harder to see the body of a loved one, I had learned. You couldn't look at them quite as dispassionately.

"Breathe, Sherlock," I murmured. I watched him carefully. I realized that he was going to be sick before he did, which was fortunate, as I just had time to shepherd him to the kitchen sink before he retched.

I held him by his shoulders as he brought up what little food he had eaten. He was white as a ghost by the time his stomach was emptied. He sank to his knees, covering his mouth with one hand.

"Sorry," he croaked again, looking positively miserable.

I patted his shoulder, reaching across the counter for a glass. I filled it with water, wrinkling my nose at the puddle of vomit in the sink. I would clean that once I had put Sherlock to bed.

"It's all right," I said, kneeling beside him. I gave him the glass of water, which he sipped at before setting it aside. "Let me know if you need to be sick again."

He shook his head. I placed my hand on the back of his neck.

I was suddenly deeply grateful that I had brought him back to my house instead of leaving him alone with Hamish at Baker Street. He continued to cry, obviously less comfortable for having been ill, but unable to quell his tears.

My thighs began to ache, so I settled onto my knees. I pulled Holmes closer to me, so that his shoulder was pressed to my chest. His head fell onto my collarbone after a slight moment of hesitation. I took one of his hands into mine. His fingers were clammy.

I watched him try to pull himself back together. It was a sorry sight.

Still, there was really nothing more to say. I held him tight to me for what felt like hours. Finally, his tears seemed to be subsiding.

I stood, pulling him up with me.

"I've got a spare toothbrush in the hall bathroom," I told him as he rubbed his swollen eyes with the heels of his hands. "Haven't used it. You're welcome to it."

He nodded, apparently not trusting his voice enough to answer aloud.

I led him to the bathroom, and waited just outside the door for him to finish. There wasn't anything in there he could use to harm himself, but I couldn't be too careful. When he emerged a few minutes later, he looked positively haggard.

"Bed for you, I think," I muttered, taking him by the arm and leading him into the spare room where Hamish still slept on the floor. I tried to push Sherlock down onto the bed, but he would have none of it. He pulled away from me and lay on the floor a careful distance from Hamish. His eyes were locked on the little boy.

I almost picked him up and set him on the mattress, but I knew that would prove futile. I let him lie beside his godchild. After a moment's consideration, I took the duvet from the bed, and spread it over Sherlock's thin shoulders.

"Get some rest, sunshine," I said quietly. He gave no response.

I left the room long enough to clean the mess in the sink and wash my hands. When I returned, Sherlock had not moved a muscle. He was still awake, watching the little boy sleep.

I sighed, and sat on the floor beside him, joints creaking.

"You need to sleep, Sherlock," I said softly, for fear of waking baby Hamish.

His brows furrowed but he said nothing.

I hesitated for a brief moment before placing a hand on his back. I moved my thumb in a wide circle, hoping to soothe Sherlock. It took some minutes, but eventually, his eyelids drooped and finally closed. His breathing slowed.

I moved my hand away, making to stand and head to my own room – I might still be able to sleep an hour or two, if I was lucky – when Sherlock's voice stopped me.

"Don't go, please," he said, so softly I almost didn't hear. His eyes did not open, but he was evidently not asleep.

"Sherlock," I said, equally quietly.

"Please," he repeated.

I knew how much that simple word cost him. Sherlock Holmes never asked for help, ever. I ran my hand down my face and took a breath. I couldn't refuse him.

"Yeah, alright," I said after a moment. I reached up and grabbed a pillow from the bed and set it on the ground. I laid on the edge of the blanket, and nestled my body close to his. He sighed at the contact.

"Thank you," he breathed.

I looped my arm around his torso.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock."

He did.


	2. Chapter 2

"Tod."

I woke to a light tapping on my shoulder. I opened my eyes. At some point during the night, I had rolled onto my back. Sherlock had tangled himself around me. I pulled a chunk of raven hair from my mouth.

"Tod!" Another tap. I turned to see baby Hamish bringing his hand down upon my shoulder. He grinned widely when he saw that I was awake. "Tod. Tod."

"Yes, I'm up. Hush now, or you'll wake Sherlock."

I hoped that the younger man would sleep for a while longer. It was certainly going to be a long day. That, however, proved to be a futile hope.

"I'm awake," he mumbled into my chest.

"Da!" Hamish said excitedly. "Da." He tapped Sherlock's shoulder a few times, for good measure.

"He's been at it for at least ten minutes," the detective continued. "I'm surprised you didn't wake sooner."

"Why didn't you get up?" I asked.

"Didn't want to wake you."

I bit back surprise. That was extremely considerate, coming from Sherlock.

All the same, I was awake now. I disentangled my arms, and stretched them over my head with a groan. My shoulders popped in unison.

"Sleeping on the floor does wonders for the joints," I muttered.

Hamish giggled, and tapped my upper arm. "Tod."

"Yes, yes, we're both awake. Now if your godfather would be so kind as to get up, we could get you some breakfast."

Hamish's godfather moaned and tightened his hold on my torso. He mumbled something that might have been "Not yet."

I looked down at the man attached to my chest with some worry. He must really have been feeling terrible, to cling to me with such fervor. Soft light washed over him, highlighting his pale skin.

"Da?" Hamish asked worriedly. "Da?" He looked at me as if to ask, 'Is he all right?'

"Sherlock," I breathed. "Hamish will need food, and probably a fresh nappy."

"Hm…" Sherlock lifted his head slightly, and regarded the child for a moment. Then, painfully stiff, he pulled himself off of my chest and sat up. "Do you really need food?" he asked the child seriously.

I pulled myself to sitting beside him.

"Babies need to eat regularly, Sherlock," I told him.

"Da," Hamish confirmed.

Sherlock frowned.

He reached over and picked Hamish up, examining him. "What do they feed you? Do you eat toast?" He turned the boy around a few times. "Why are you damp?"

Hamish squirmed. "Da," he whined.

"Sherlock," I chided lightly. I was amazed that someone who had _researched _how to hold a child had not the faintest clue of how to feed one. I took the boy from him and stood, before stopping. "He's right, you are damp." I frowned. "I don't have any nappies. Do you have any at Baker Street?"

Sherlock looked, if anything, more dazed than he had last night. He shook his head. I considered for a few minutes. "There's a Tesco just down the block. I can run in and see if they have anything-"

"Don't go," Sherlock pleaded, sounding much like he had last night.

I sighed. "Sherlock, he needs breakfast. And a nappy."

"We can just… make him tea and toast, and-"

"He needs baby food. And we can't just let him run around naked."

Sherlock looked distraught. My heart sank.

"Look, just… just watch him for a few minutes while I run to the store. I'll be back before you know it."

"That's what John said, before…" he trailed off.

I sank back down again, placing the child on the ground next to him. Hamish scooted close to his godfather, tapping his hand lightly against his chest. "Da?" he asked, eyes wide. "Da?"

Of course. Sherlock had been babysitting Hamish yesterday afternoon. John and Mary had wanted to spend a night to themselves, and had left their son with his godfather. Sherlock had been terrified. It was the first time he had been entrusted with the child for an entire night. He had been texting me when I got the call about the crash.

"Hey." I took Sherlock's face into my hands, forcing him to look into my eyes. "I swear to you I won't let anything happen. It's just a short walk. I'll be back in twenty minutes, probably less."

Sherlock looked ready to cry again. He swallowed, and nodded. "I'll… I'll be here…" he said.

"Da," Hamish muttered, shaking his head. "No. Da." He rubbed his tiny hand along Sherlock's chest, responding to Sherlock's distress.

I gave a small smile. "And it looks like you've got someone to watch over you as well."

It was no coincidence that Hamish called Sherlock 'Da,' I knew. He had only a limited arsenal of words, which were mostly names. He knew Mary as 'Mama,' and John was 'Dada.' He had picked up 'Lestrade' somewhere along the way as well, shortened to 'Tod.' I had assumed that 'Sherlock' was just a complicated name to say. The first time that I had heard Hamish call him 'Da,' I thought he was just asking Sherlock to be given back to his father. This was probably a fair assumption, but anyone could see that the little boy looked up to his godfather just as much as he looked up to John. 'Da' was as much a figure in his life as 'Dada.'

Sherlock caught the tiny hand in his own. He nodded slowly.

"Yes. We'll… we'll be just fine."

I patted him on the shoulder. "Good."

I stood, and surveyed the state of my clothes. I had fallen asleep in them, and they were wrinkled, but, I decided, presentable enough for the store.

I gave Sherlock the warmest smile I could muster. "I'll be back shortly. I promise. Feel free to turn on the telly to keep him occupied."

Sherlock nodded absently. Hamish continued to coo "Da" at him.

I left, making sure the house was secure.

I found a small pack of disposable nappies at Tesco, as well as milk and applesauce. Hopefully, that would be enough for today. I paid for the items, and rushed home as quickly as I could.

"Sherlock?" I called from the front door. I checked my watch. True to my word, I had only been gone about fifteen minutes. All the same, I heard a broken "Le_strade_" in response.

I hurried into the bedroom. Hamish and Sherlock were both crying. I set the bag of groceries on the bed and sat next to the detective.

"Hey. Hey," I said gently, putting a hand on Sherlock's arm. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said. "I put him down and he just started crying. He's been asking for Mary. I don't know what to do." Tears streamed down his own face.

"Oh, Sherlock," I breathed. "Well, he's overdue for a change. That's as good a place to start as any."

"Mama," Hamish sniffled.

"Mary isn't here," Sherlock tried to explain.

"Ma_ma,_" Hamish insisted.

"All right," I said, quickly rummaging through the bag on the bed for a nappy. "It's all right, Hamish. Sherlock, would you undress him?"

Hamish fought him the whole time, kicking.

"Hamish, calm down!" Sherlock cried in dismay.

"Mama! Ma!"

"She isn't here!"

"_Mama!"_

Eventually, the detective was able to peel the soiled pajamas from the boy's body. Hamish was wailing. Sherlock was not far behind.

"Please stop crying, Hamish," he pleaded.

"Mama," Hamish cried. "Mama."

"Sh. Sherlock." I put a hand on his shoulder, trying to defuse the situation. "Let's just get him changed."

Sherlock sniffed and nodded.

I handed him a new nappy, which he was able to put onto Hamish relatively easily, considering the difficulty with which he had removed the boy's pajamas.

Hamish had quieted down some, now that he was dry.

"All right. Good." I stood. "'Mish, do you want some breakfast?"

"Ma," he hiccupped, as another fat tear rolled down his cheek.

"Breakfast will help, I promise."

"Ma," he said again, but at least he let himself be picked up and carried into the kitchen without too much trouble.

"Sherlock, would you grab the applesauce from the bag?"

He appeared in the kitchen moments later wiping his eyes with one hand while he proffered the applesauce with the other.

"Thank you," I said softly. He nodded and went back down the hallway. He turned into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. I sighed. I could deal with him later.

I grabbed a bowl and spoon. "Do you like applesauce, 'Mish?"

"Ma."

It was going to be a long day.


End file.
